Need You Now
by Cat Francis
Summary: Sherlolly song!fic based on "Need You Now" by Lady Antebellum. Set about 18 months into Sherlock's exile. Sherlock's POV; Molly is working late in the morgue and Sherlock can't sleep out of fear of being captured. Rated T for mentions of torture.


Memories. Memories were all Sherlock had now and they were all he was likely to have. He was lying on a hard bed in a cheap motel room - booked with a fake name - waiting for Moriarty's men to close in. It was a risky plan but the only way to make sure he got the information he needed was for him to be captured and, probably, tortured. But right now, it was thoughts of the past that troubled him. More specifically, thoughts of his last conversation with Molly.

Oh, Molly Hooper. What an extraordinary woman. It had been a hurried goodbye, to say the least and Sherlock had spent many sleepless, fearful nights regretting all the things he hadn't said. Tonight was not one of those nights. Instead, he wanted nothing more than a kind word, perhaps something to let him know that someone out there still cared.

It had been so long since he had felt loved. He concluded that it was better when he hadn't realized how lonely he was. Pretending was so much easier when you didn't have anything to compare it to. But now he knew what it was like to have people who actively cared about him. To have friends.

Most nights that he felt like this, he would remind himself of all the reasons why he shouldn't contact anyone from Back Home. He couldn't bear to put them in danger and the risk to himself was far too great. But, he thought, tonight I want them to find me and I'm tired of waiting for them to figure it out on their own.

He pulled the disposable phone out of his pocket and stared at it lying in his palm. After a moment, he closed his eyes and dialed the number he had repeated to himself over and over in the past, as if reciting her number and staring at it written on a wall in his mind palace were anything close to talking to her for real.

As the phone rang, Sherlock's heart pounded in his chest and a million questions flooded his brain. He had no idea what time it was in England; he wasn't even completely sure what time it was for him. Would she pick up? Would she be half-asleep? Would she be in the middle of an autopsy? Or a meeting?

"Hello?"

He leaned back against the rough headboard and savoured each syllable. "Molly."

"B-but I thought-"

"Are you alone?"

"Yes. I'm working late."

"Use my name," Sherlock whispered, not really sure where this request was coming from, "please."

"Sherlock. Oh my goodness, Sherlock, it's really you."

If he kept his eyes closed, he could pretend that she was in the room with him instead of on the other end of a phone.

"Yes." Why couldn't he think of anything to say?

"I-I don't e-even know what to say," Molly giggled nervously. "I would ask how you are but I feel like that's probably not a good question."

Sherlock smiled, pressing the phone even closer to his ear, desperate to catch every breath from the other end. "Probably not. Molly, tell me a story."

"What? You called me in the middle of the night, probably risking being caught, just for me to tell you a story? What's happened? Something very bad has to have happened for you to call. I mean, I know you're on the run and hunting down Moriarty's people so there's probably something bad happening all the time but this must be worse that usual."

On another occasion, Sherlock probably would have pointed out the rambling but he found that he didn't want to interrupt. He didn't want her to stop. He wanted to escape, for a little while, into her voice and her odd habits and the memories of his life Before. "I'd rather not say, Molly."

"Uh, okay, what do you want me to tell you about?"

"Anything. What did you do today? What did you eat for breakfast? How is Toby?"

"Won't that bore you?"

"Not in the least."

"Sherlock, are you scared of something?"

"What?"

"N-nothing. You just…just seem worried. You're asking about my cat."

With a sudden sinking of his stomach, Sherlock suddenly realized that he did not want to be captured or tortured. Yes, it was necessary but everything in him was urging him to run far and fast before he was caught.

"They're coming for me, Molly," he confessed. Ah well, one always seems to become more honest at nighttime. "It's vital to the plan but I'm scared. And it's going to hurt so terribly. I don't want to think about it. Just, let me listen to your voice."

There was silence on the other end. I've scared her off. I should never have said anything. Stupid.

"Molly?"

"Yes, I'm here. Sorry. I just," there was a gasp like she was trying to keep from crying, "I knew that you were doing something really dangerous but I hadn't realized how real it was. Sorry. Okay, um, story. You're not missing much in terms of cases, all the ones I've had to help Lestrade with have been fairly routine. Nothing too out of the ordinary. Probably nothing you'd consider higher than a three or four-"

"Not about cases, Molly. I don't want to hear about deaths, not right now. I want- I need to know about you. Just…you. Did you wake up late and have to get ready in five minutes? Was it sunny today?"

"Right, sorry. Uh, not sunny. Sort of sunny, I guess. Mostly cloudy. But warm. And no, I woke up on time this morning. But something interesting: I've been thinking about you all day."

Sherlock's eyes flew open and, for a second, he couldn't say anything at all. She's been thinking about me.

"Oh, goodness, not like that," she said hurriedly and presumably misinterpreting Sherlock's shocked silence for anger, "but just hoping that you're alright and safe and everything. And I had this weird feeling like you were right about to walk through the doors and demand a liver or something." Again, a nervous giggle.

"I've been thinking about you, too," Sherlock said, voice rough with emotion.

"Yeah, I thought maybe you had been. You called me, you see." A real laugh this time.

Sherlock laughed too. "Yes, I suppose I did. Bit of a giveaway, that."

"A bit obvious, Mister Holmes, I have to say."

"Ah, well I'll be much more subtle next time." It was the first time in eighteen months he'd done anything more than grimace or grit his teeth against some pain or another. It felt nice. All too soon, it was over.

"Sherlock?"

"Yes, Molly?"

"There will be a next time, right?"

"Molly, I-"

"Sherlock, just promise me. Promise me right now, on the phone in the middle of the night, that there will be a next time. There has to be. I don't think I could stand it if-"

"Of course there will be." He needed to believe it as much as she did. "I should go now."

"Sherlock-"

The heart-pounding had begun again and he cursed his body for betraying him. As he spoke his voice cracked and wavered, "Listen, if I don't-"

"Shut up, Sherlock. Shut up. Whatever you're going to say, you can say it when you get back. You made me a promise, remember? It'll be okay; it has to be okay. You promised." He could tell by the way her voice shook that she was crying, unable to stop it now. He felt terrible to leave her like this but he didn't have a choice; there was a van pulling up outside the motel door.

"Thank you, Molly Hooper. Until the next time."

As Sherlock pulled the mobile away from his ear, he could hear her saying something more but everything sounded fuzzy through the blood pulsing through his head. He snapped the phone in half, rendering it useless. He stood up, composed himself as best he could and waited by the door to meet his fate. He would get through this; he had promised Molly that he would. And she had been thinking about him. She remembered. She still cared. She was exactly who he had needed.


End file.
